


through the eyes of love and to never know what hate is

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, That's it, it's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: As soon as he crumples onto the turf, Virgil knows that it’s a proper injury. Not just an ache or a knock, but something that’s going to keep him out for a while. Jordan Henderson doesn’t go down – and then stay down, for that matter – for no reason. He’s not like that. He can take a kick or two.But this is something different. Off the ball, hand round the back of his leg instantly. Nobody even close enough to breathe on him, let alone challenge enough to cause an injury.
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	through the eyes of love and to never know what hate is

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i've had a terrible week (and it's only wednesday), so i wrote something nice and soft to cheer me up. no angst here, which i know is a surprise for me.
> 
> hope you enjoy! 
> 
> feedback always appreciated xo

To say Jordan is sulking would be an understatement. 

As soon as he crumples onto the turf, Virgil knows that it’s a proper injury. Not just an ache or a knock, but something that’s going to keep him out for a while. Jordan Henderson doesn’t go down – and then stay down, for that matter – for no reason. He’s not like that. He can take a kick or two.

But this is something different. Off the ball, hand round the back of his leg instantly. Nobody even close enough to breathe on him, let alone challenge enough to cause an injury. This is muscle.

This is hamstring.

Jordan looks up at Virgil once, eyes shining and mouth turned down, and then stares down at the ground again like he can’t bear it. Knowing him, he’s too scared of seeing anything resembling pity. Virgil would never pity him. Sympathise, maybe, but – pity isn’t in the list of things that Virgil feels when he looks at Jordan.

He doesn’t see Jordan again until well after the game. When interviews are done and the anger has just about rolled off his shoulders, and things are starting to feel a little lighter again. That’s when Jordan seeks him out, wrapped up in his travel trackies like a suit of armour. Virgil knows there’s an ice pack strapped to the back of his thigh even without seeing the outline of it stretching the material out.

“Hey,” Jordan says, voice quiet. It’s not like him, but he lifts his chin defiantly like he’s expecting Virgil to challenge him on it. When he doesn’t, he shuffles forward, rolling his bottom lip into his mouth. The movement is expectant. Hopeful.

“Oh, J,” Virgil breathes, opening his arms and letting Jordan make a place for himself against his chest. Jordan smiles at the nickname (not that Virgil can see it. He can feel it, though, against his chest where Jordan is hiding his face), but it lasts all of a matter of seconds and then it falls again. “What are they saying?”

“They don’t know for sure,” Jordan says, muffled against the collar of Virgil’s t-shirt. His breath is hot through the cotton, and it stutters a little bit when Virgil traces patterns up his spine. “But they think it’s hamstring. Won’t know the severity of it until I’ve had the scans tomorrow.” 

“Well, at least we don’t play again for six games. It could just be a slight strain,” Virgil says with a hum. It’s bullshit and he knows it, and Jordan probably knows it too, but all he wants, desperately, is to make Jordan feel better. If it takes a white lie, then – that’s okay. “Bit of rest might fix it, and then you’ll be back before we even noticed you were gone.” 

“Yeah,” Jordan says, tipping his head up to look at Virgil when the younger man’s fingers curl around the back of his neck. It’s a little ridiculous, really – stood in the dressing room of a stadium that isn’t theirs, wrapped up in each other while their teammates mill about around them. Virgil never thought he’d see Jordan as open as this. He’s so grateful that he does. “Maybe.” 

.

It could just be a slight strain.

But, of course, knowing Jordan’s luck, it’s not. 

It’s not terrible, either – it’s three weeks, roughly, but that’s obviously three weeks too long for Jordan. He doesn’t call Virgil out on his white lie the day before, but he does tell him to fuck off when he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Virgil doesn’t take it to heart, because he knows that Jordan regrets it as soon as the words come out of his mouth. He doesn’t say that, of course – just curls in on himself, hands cupped around his elbows, and turns away. Virgil concedes defeat, because that’s the only thing he can do right now, and kisses the side of his head before jogging back to the rest of the team. 

It’s later that night when Jordan opens up enough to apologise. Virgil carries on like normal, opens the post and tidies their trainers that are lined up in the hallway, then heads through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. When he hands Jordan he kisses his cheek like normal, hating the way that Jordan doesn’t react – doesn’t smile, doesn’t tilt his head for a proper kiss, doesn’t say a word – but knowing that it’s for the best. 

He doesn’t react for another hour or so. Not until Virgil (reluctantly) leaves him curled up and silent on the sofa to start dinner, because injury or not, they both need to eat. The silence was getting a little suffocating, anyway.

Virgil’s chopping carrots when he hears “I’m sorry,” from behind him, quiet but recognisable anywhere. He doesn’t turn, but he can feel his own shoulders loosen, and he smiles down at the knife in his hand.

“It’s okay,” he says, bracing himself for the inevitable cold fingers that are about to slip under his hoodie. They come, and Jordan wraps his arms around Virgil’s waist, cheek resting against his shoulder blade as he presses a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. He stays still, patient, while Virgil finishes what he’s doing.

“No, it’s not,” Jordan murmurs eventually, slipping so he’s tucked against Virgil’s side when he finally puts the knife down and lifts his arm. He looks up from beneath his lashes, biting his bottom lip painfully, nuzzling into his chest like those few hours he was giving Virgil the cold shoulder were the worst of his life. Virgil doesn’t have the heart to tell him it was his own fault. “You shouldn’t have to put up with such a miserable bastard like me.” 

“Well, I wasn’t sure at first,” Virgil says, humming slightly. He’s trying to stop the smile from breaking across his face but it’s proving impossible at this point, and Jordan can see it too. “But as soon as your dad started paying me, that’s when I knew it was worth it.” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan says, but it’s nicer this time. He’s smiling and he drags his fingers from Virgil’s stomach to his sides, tickling the sensitive skin across his ribs. He uses his grip on Virgil to stop him pulling away and doesn’t let up until Virgil gasps out _mercy, mercy_. “I mean it. I am sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you.” 

“And _I_ mean it,” Virgil says. He pulls out of Jordan’s grip and turns to face him, taking both of his hands in his own and meeting his gaze. “It’s okay. I know what you’re like by now, J, and I still love you regardless of how miserable you are.” 

Jordan bites his lip, peering up at Virgil like he doesn’t quite believe him. “If you’re sure,” he says eventually, backing down when he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for, and stretches up to kiss Virgil for the first time in far too long. 

Virgil has missed this feeling much more than he actually cares to admit. 

.

The injury isn’t terrible, but it still isn’t _great_.

The first few days of Jordan’s recovery plan are for rest. Plain, simple rest – especially with the incessant storms that are making the temperature drop to just above freezing. It’s not good for him to be out in this cold, not good for his hamstring. That’s what Dr Massey tells him, and Virgil repeats it any time he sits up eagerly when Virgil says he’s nipping out. 

That means no training, either; not even rehab training. That’s probably the thing that Jordan is worst about, but Virgil pays him no mind. 

The first day after the diagnosis, Virgil has to get up for a morning training session. His alarm goes off at seven and it’s still not properly light out, but at this point, he’s used to it. He dresses quickly, sipping a cup of coffee the entire time, because it’s too cold to be lounging around the house in nothing but a t-shirt and his pants. The coffee warms him up from the inside.

What _would_ warm him up from the inside is a goodbye kiss, but when he ducks back into the bedroom, Jordan is still wrapped up in the duvet, back towards the door and completely silent. 

He isn’t asleep. Virgil can tell by the pattern of his breathing. 

He is pretending to be, though, and he doesn’t react when Virgil presses one knee into the mattress. He doesn’t move when he feels the heat of Virgil’s body when he stretches across and leans down. He doesn’t say anything when Virgil kisses his cheek and murmurs his goodbyes.

That’s okay, though. 

Virgil meant it when he said he knew what he was getting into, and he loves him regardless. 

.

“What are these,” Jordan says as soon as Virgil steps through the front door. It’s not a question, but more a statement.

“What do they look like?” Virgil says, gently mocking. He shrugs his coat off and hangs it next to Jordan’s, loving the little thrill that shocks through his body at the sight. He toes his trainers off and lines them up neatly, before turning and looking at Jordan patiently.

“Well – I mean –” Jordan starts, stuttering across his words. He flames bright red and gestures at the side table helplessly. Virgil doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so flustered, and he can’t help but smile slightly (small enough that Jordan doesn’t hit him). “– they’re _flowers_ , Virgil.”

“Yes, they are,” Virgil says, leaning against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and smiles properly, loving the way Jordan’s cheeks turn an even brighter shade of red.

“ _Why_?” Jordan asks, shrugging helplessly. He seems completely, entirely lost, but they’ve both seen the message that was tucked in with the bouquet. Virgil is the one that wrote it, after all.

**J,**

**Forever yours,  
Virgil X**

That’s all it said, because that’s all it needed to say.

“Because I love you,” Virgil says, pushing himself off the wall and stepping into Jordan’s space. He hooks his arms around his waist and waits until Jordan looks up at him, hands on his chest, before he speaks again. “Because I can. Because sometimes you need to brighten up.” 

“The world isn’t all sunshine and daisies, you know,” Jordan says. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, so he doesn’t really mean it. If he was trying to be convincing, he’d have to stop his voice from sounding so happy. 

“No, it’s not. Don’t often get sunshine in Liverpool,” Virgil says thoughtfully. They sway on the spot, and Jordan doesn’t even say anything about how soppy it is. Must be going soft in his old age – not that Virgil would say that to his face. “But sometimes there are daisies. Well, there is when I send you them. And if that’s what it takes to make you feel a little bit brighter, then I’ll do it.” 

Jordan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling brightly now, so wide that it must make his face hurt, but he doesn’t show it if it does. Maybe, Virgil thinks, Jordan himself is the sunshine. “Soppy git,” Jordan murmurs, but he’s pressing close to give Virgil a soft, deep kiss that draws a gasp from deep in his lungs. 

“Only for you,” Virgil whispers, and means it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
